GEMS OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE 

Volume I 


FROM DEATH TO LIFE 

FT MEADE 
3 GenColl 

A€5T 

Fv 

comj. 


ILLUSTRATED 

▼ 


R.Frank. Publisher .Newark 










Copyright N n 



COPYRIGHT DEPOSIT. 




\ 


GEMS OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE 


“A page digested is better than 
a volume hurriedly read”. 


Macaulay . 


> • 


GEMS OF RUSSIAN LITERATURE 

VOLUME l 

FROM DEATH TO LIFE 

BY A. APUKHTIN 

AkKstt M,'UaAv 


ILLUSTRATED ^ 



R. Frank, Publisher, New York 



Copyright 191 7, by 
R. FRANK} NEW YORK 
( All Rights Reserved) 


MAY 14 1917 


/ 


© CL A 4 6 0 7 9 8 C/ 
7U? * X , 


FROM DEATH TO LIFE 

By A. Apukhtin 


-v 

✓ TRANSLATED FROM THE ORIGINAL 
by R. FranJ^ and E. Huybers 


PORTRAIT AND SEVEN 
PEN AND INK DRAWINGS 
by Franklin Booth 


PUBLISHED 

BY R. FRANK, NEW YORK 





































































. 






























































































- 














































































A. APUKHTIN 

Russian Poel 
1849-1893 


FROM DEATH TO LIFE 












_ 


















I 

It was eight o’clock in the evening when 
the doctor placed his ear to my heart, put a 
small mirror to my lips, and, turning to my 
wife, said in a low and solemn voice : 

“It’s all over.” 

From these words I surmised that I was 
dead. 

Strictly speaking, I had been dead for 
some time. 

For more than a thousand hours I had 
lain motionless; I could not utter a word, 
but now and then continued to breathe. 
During the whole course of my illness I 
felt as if chained by a thousand fetters to 
a hollow wall, which caused me torture. 
Little by little the wall released me, my 
sufferings decreased, the fetters loosened 
and fell apart. 


9 


During the last two days I was held by a 
piece of tape, which now also was torn off, 
and I felt a sense of lightness, such as I 
had never before experienced. 

Around me began an indescribable scene 
of confusion. My big study, to which I had 
been moved at the beginning of my illness, 
was suddenly filled with people, who began 
whispering, talking, and weeping, all at 
once. The old housekeeper, Yudishna, 
cried in an unusually loud voice. My wife 
fell upon my breast, sobbing convulsively; 
she had wept so much during my illness that 
I could not understand where all her tears 
came from. Above all the voices was heard 
the cracked, quavering voice of my old but- 
ler, Savelli. While I was still a child he 
was assigned to me as nurse, and had never 
since left me; but he was now so old that 
he no longer did any work to speak of. In 
the morning he would bring me my dress- 
ing-gown and slippers, and then, “for the 
sake of his health,” he indulged for the rest 
of the day in sundry liquors and quarreled 
with the other domestics. My death seemed 
to irritate rather than to grieve him ; yet, at 
the same time it gave him an unusual sense 
of importance. I overheard how he ordered 
someone to go for my brother, scolded 


10 


someone else, and bustled about, giving all 
sorts of orders. 

My eyes were closed, but I saw and heard 
everything that was going on around me. 

My brother came in — self-centred and 
overbearing, as always. My wife could not 
tolerate him, and yet she threw herself on 
his neck, and her tears redoubled. 

“That’ll do, Zoe ! That’s enough ! After 
all, tears will not help you,” said my brother 
in a cold, passionless voice. “Pull yourself 
together for the sake of your children, and 
remember that he is better off.” 

He freed himself with difficulty from her 
embrace, and placed her on a sofa. 

“It will be necessary to make some ar- 
rangements at once. . . . Will you let me 
help you, Zoe ?” 

“Oh, Andre, do, for Heaven’s sake; I 
leave it all to you. . . ♦ How could I do 
anything now?” 

She began to weep afresh, and my 
brother sat down at the writing-desk and 
called the young servant Semyon. 

“Take this announcement to the Novoe 
Vremya, and then send for an undertaker ; 
and, by the way, ask him whether he knows 
of any good psalm-singer.” 

“Your Highness,” answered Semyon, 


11 


bowing, “there’s no need of sending for an 
undertaker: four of them have been hang- 
ing around outside since morning. We have 
chased them away again and again, and yet 
they’re still there. Shall I call them up ?” 

“No, I’ll go out to them myself.” And 
thereupon my brother read aloud the an- 
nouncement he had just written. 

“Princess Zoe Borissovna Trubtchevsky 
announces with heartfelt emotion the death 
of her husband, Prince Dmitri Alexandro- 
vitch Trubtchevsky, which took place on the 
20th of February at 8 o’clock in the evening, 
after a long and painful illness. The funer- 
al service will be held at 2 o’clock in the 
afternoon and 9 o’clock in the evening.” 

“Is there nothing else to say, Zoe?” 

“No, certainly not. But why do you use 
that terrible word ‘emotion’? Je ne puis 
pas souffrir ce mot. Mettez: ‘with pro- 
found grief’.” 

My brother made the correction. 

“I’m sending it to the Novoe Vremya. 
Is that enough?” 

“Yes, quite enough. But perhaps you 
might also send it to the Journal de St. 
Petersburg.” 

“Very well. I’ll write it in French.” 

“It doesn’t matter ; they’ll translate it.” 

12 










; My brother left. My wife came up to 
Mne, seated herself in the armchair, which 
jgEtood at the bedside, and looked at me for 
IHr long time with a sort of imploring expres- 
sion. In that silent look I read much more 
R >f love and sorrow than in her sobs and 
I jgj ries. She recalled to mind our past life, 
BSgjull of stress and storm. She now blamed 
^Kerself for everything and pondered over 
l^ie way she should have acted. So deep in 
K J iought was she that she did not notice my 
■ rother, who had returned with an under- 
& aker and who had been standing for some 
K me beside her, not wishing to disturb her. 
gb >n seeing the undertaker, she uttered a 
harp cry, and fainted. She was removed 
oU,. o her room. 

R “You may rest easy, your Highness,” 
Said the undertaker, taking my measure as 
Wfinceremoniously as my tailor used to do. 

: We have everything ready : the shroud and 
uneral lights. We can remove the remains 
S^nto the drawing-room within an hour. 
R\nd don't worry about the coffin: it’ll be 
ME uch a comfortable one that even a live 
MS' lan might lie in it.” 

Once more my study began to fill with 
»eople. The governess brought in the chil- 
K ren. 



13 


Sonya threw herself upon me and wept 
just as her mother had done, but little Kolya 
stood stock-still, stoutly refusing to ap- 
proach me, and screamed with fright. Nas- 
tassya, my wife’s favorite maid, who had 
married the servant Semyon last year and 
who was now approaching her confinement, 
glided into the room. She crossed herself 
with a clumsy motion of the arms, and 
tried hard to kneel down, but her condi- 
tion prevented her from doing so. She 
sobbed apathetically. 

“Listen, Nastassya,” said Semyon to her 
softly, “don’t bend down, or something 
might happen to you. You’d better go to 
your room: you’ve prayed, that’s enough.” 

“And how could I help praying for him?” 
answered Nastassya in a droning voice and 
loud enough for all to hear. “He was not a 
man, he was an angel of Heaven ! Just be- 
fore the very end he thought of me, and 
told Sophya Franzovna to stay by me and 
not to leave me.” 

Nastassya spoke the truth. My wife had 
spent all the previous night at my bedside 
and wept almost unceasingly. This tired me 
out at last. Early in the morning, in order 
to give her thoughts another direction, but 
mainly to see whether I could speak clearly, 

14 


I asked her the first question that came to 
my mind: whether Nastassya’s child was 
born yet. My wife rejoiced greatly that I 
could speak, and asked whether she should 
not send for our midwife, Sophya Fran- 
zovna. I replied: “Yes, do so.” After that I 
seemed to have said nothing more, and 
Nastassya naively imagined that my last 
thoughts were about her. 

The housekeeper, Yudishna, at last 
stopped crying, and began to look at some- 
thing on my writing desk. Savelli set upon 
her furiously. 

“Now, you there, Praskovya Yudishna, 
leave his Highness’ desk alone,” said he in 
an irritated whisper. “You’ve no business 
here.” 

“Well, what’s the matter with you, 
Savelli Petrovitch?” hissed Yudishna, 
greatly offended. “Do you think I was go- 
ing to steal something ?” 

“I know nothing about what you were 
going to do, but as long as the seals haven’t 
been attached, I’ll allow nobody to touch 
the desk. I haven’t served his Highness 
these forty years for nothing.” 

“You needn’t throw your forty years at 
me. I myself have lived in this house long- 
er than that, and now it appears I may not 

IS 


even pray for his Highness* soul.” 

“Pray as much as you like, but don*t 
touch the desk.” 

Out of respect for me, these people quar- 
reled in a whisper, yet I clearly heard every 
word they said. That astonished me great- 
ly. Two years ago I read a French story 
giving a detailed account of the impressions 
of a man who had been buried alive. I 
tried to recall to mind that story, but could 
not remember the main point — how he man- 
aged to get out of the coffin. 

In the dining-room the clock began to 
strike. I counted eleven. Vassyutka, a lit- 
tle girl whom we kept to go on errands, 
ran in with the news that the priest had 
come and that everything was ready in the 
drawing-room. A big basin of water was 
brought in; they undressed me and began 
to rub me with a wet sponge, but I did not 
feel it; it seemed to me as if they were 
washing someone else’s body, someone else*s 
legs. 

“Now I know I am not in a trance/* I 
said to myself, while they were wrapping 
me in clean linen. “But what can it be 
then ?** 

The doctor said it was all over, they are 
weeping for me, they are about to put me 

16 


into a coffin, and will bury me in a couple 
of days. The body, which has served me 
for so many years, is no longer mine; I 
am dead, beyond doubt, and yet I continue 
to see, hear, and understand. Perhaps, in 
the brain life continues longer, but is not 
the brain also a part of the body? This 
body was like a house in which I had lived 
for a long time and from which I decided 
to move. All the windows and doors are 
wide open, all the things have been removed, 
all the family have gone, and only the mas- 
ter remains behind at the entrance, casting 
a parting glance at the row of rooms, which 
before were swarming with life, and which 
now surprise him by their emptiness. 

Here, in the darkness, which surrounded 
me, for the first time flashed before me a 
feeble spark of light, some sort of sensation 
or recollection. It seemed to me that a U 
this was familiar to me, that I had already 
lived through it at some former time, but 
long, long ago. 


17 


II 

Night came on. I was lying on the table 
in the big drawing-room, covered with a 
black pall. The furniture had been re- 
moved, the blinds were pulled down, the 
pictures were hung with crape. A cover- 
ing of gold brocade was placed over my feet, 
in the tall silver candle-sticks candles 
burned brightly. Savelli, with his yellow, 
sharply protruding cheek-bones, his bald 
head, toothless mouth, and bunches of wrin- 
kles round his half-closed eyes, stood mo- 
tionless at my right; he, rather than I, re- 
sembled a skeleton. At my left stood a tall, 
pale man, in a long coat, who chanted the 
funeral psalms in a deep monotone, his voice 
re-echoing through the empty room. 

Exactly two months previously in that 
same room music had resounded, merr.y 

18 


couples had whirled, and various people, 
young and old, had greeted each other glad- 
ly, or talked scandal of one another. 

I always detested social functions, and, 
besides, since the middle of November I 
had not been feeling well, and therefore I 
protested with all my might against that 
ball. My wife, however, was determined to 
have it at all costs, because she had reason 
to expect that some very distinguished per- 
sonages would be our guests. We quarreled 
about it, but she insisted. The ball was a 
brilliant success, but for me it was intoler- 
able. That evening, for the first time, I 
felt utterly tired of life, and became con- 
scious that I had not much longer to live. 

My whole life was a succession of social 
festivities, and herein lies the tragedy of 
my existence. I loved the country, books, 
hunting ; I loved quiet life, and yet I passed 
all my life in society — first to please my 
parents, and afterwards to please my wife. 
I have always thought that man is born 
with clearly defined indications of his future 
character, and all the trouble is due to the 
fact that his environment raises obstacles to 
its natural development. And I began to 
recall to mind all the wrong I had done, 
which at different times had troubled my 


19 


conscience. It was evident to me that it 
was all caused by the sharp contrast be- 
tween my character and the manner of life 
I led. . . . 

My thoughts were interrupted by a slight 
noise at my right. Savelli, who had al- 
ready been dozing for some time, suddenly 
swayed and nearly rolled to the floor. He 
crossed himself, went into the hall, and 
brought back a chair, on which he com- 
fortably fell asleep in the far corner of 
the room. The psalm-singer continued to 
drone more leisurely, until his voice stopped 
completely, and he followed Savelli’s ex- 
ample. A dead silence ensued. . . . 

In the midst of this death-like stillness 
all my life was unfolded before me, as if 
preordained by fate — terrible in its relent- 
less chain of logic. No longer did I see 
single facts, but a straight line, which be- 
gan at my birth and finished this very 
night. It could go no farther — this was 
clear to me as day. But, as I said before, 
I was conscious of the approach of death 
two months ago. 

I, to be sure, could not name the exact 
day or hour of my death, but I knew it 
approximately. I had enjoyed very good 
health all my life, and suddenly, from the 

20 



“Savelli, with his sharply protruding cheek-bones, 
stood motionless at my right/’ 






beginning of November, I began to feel 
indisposed without any cause. No illness 
had as yet announced itself, but I felt that 
I was “heading for death,” as clearly as I 
used to feel that I was about to fall asleep. 
My wife and I usually made our plans at 
the beginning of winter as to how we should 
pass the summer. This time I could not 
decide anything, the idea of summer did 
not seem to fit in ; it seemed to me somehow 
that there would be no summer at all. 

My condition, meanwhile, did not im- 
prove. My illness, like a ceremonious 
guest, was waiting for some pretext. And, 
indeed, pretexts did begin to creep in from 
all sides. Towards the end of December 
I was to join in a bear-hunt. The weather 
was very cold, and my wife, without any 
reason, began to feel alarmed about my 
health ; having probably some sort of pre- 
sentiment, she begged me not to go. I 
was passionately fond of hunting, and 
therefore insisted on going; but almost at 
the very moment of leaving, I received a 
telegram saying that the bears had gone and 
that the hunt had been given up. The 
ceremonious guest did not come to me this 
time. A week later a lady, with whom I 
had a slight love affair, arranged a monster 


21 


picnic with troikas, gypsies and snow-slides. 
Catching cold would be unavoidable, but my 
wife suddenly fell seriously ill, and begged 
me to pass the evening at home. Perhaps 
she only pretended to be ill, for the very 
next day she was at the theatre. How- 
ever that may be, the ceremonious guest 
again failed to appear. 

Two days later came the death of my 
uncle. He was the oldest of the Princes 
of Trubtchevsky. My brother, who was 
very proud of his lineage, often said of 
him: “That’s our Prince de Chambord.” 
I loved my uncle sincerely; not to at- 
tend his funeral was unthinkable. I fol- 
lowed the coffin on foot. There was a 
furious snowstorm, and I was chilled 
through. The ceremonious guest did not 
hesitate to take advantage of this, and re- 
joicing at the pretext, burst in upon me 
that very evening. On the third day the 
doctors found that I was suffering from 
pneumonia with all sorts of complications, 
and declared that I could not live more than 
two days. But it was a long time till the 
twentieth of February, and before that day 
I was not destined to die. And now be- 
gan that tedious death-agony, which had 
puzzled so many learned men. One day 

22 


I was better, the next day — worse than 
before; one day I suffered, the next day — 
my sufferings ceased entirely; until at last, 
to-day, I died according to all the rules of 
science, precisely on the day and the hour 
which fate had decreed at the moment of 
my birth. I had completed my part like 
a conscientious actor, neither adding nor 
omitting a single word of the play. 

This more than commonplace comparison 
of life with the role of an actor began to 
acquire for me a deep meaning. If, I rea- 
soned, I was playing this role of mine like 
a good actor, then, probably, I had also 
played other roles and taken part in other 
plays. If I did not die after my apparent 
death, then, probably, I had never died 
and had lived as long as the world had ex- 
isted. What seemed to me yesterday as a 
vague sensation, appeared to me now as a 
reality. But what roles, what plays were 
these ? 

I tried to find in my past life some key 
to the mystery. I tried to recall to mind 
those strange dreams, full of unknown 
countries and people; I recalled various 
meetings that left a strange, almost mystic 
impression upon me. And suddenly the 
castle of Laroch-Moden came to my 
memory. 


23 


Ill 

It was one of the most interesting and 
puzzling episodes of my life. Several years 
ago my wife and I, for the sake of her 
health, spent about six months in the south 
of France. There we made the acquaint- 
ance, among others, of the very charming 
family of Count Laroch-Moden, who one 
day invited us to his castle. 

I remember my wife and I were unusu- 
ally cheerful that day. We went in an 
open carriage; it was one of those warm 
October days which are so charming in that 
country. The stubble-fields, the bare vines, 
the many-colored leaves of the trees — all 
wore a festive appearance under the caress- 
ing rays of the warm sun. The fresh, in- 
vigorating air put us in the best of humor, 
and we chatted without ceasing. But no 

24 


“It was one of those warm October days which 
are so charming in that country.” 



sooner had we entered the estate of Count 
Moden than my cheerfulness instantly dis- 
appeared. 

The thought suddenly rushed upon me 
that the place was known, even familiar 
to me, that I had lived here at some for- 
mer time. . . . This strange, uncanny feel- 
ing increased every moment. And finally, 
when we drove into the main avenue, which 
led to the castle gates, I told my wife 
about it. 

“What nonsense !” she exclaimed. “Only 
yesterday you told me that even in your 
childhood, when you lived with your 
mother in Paris, you had never been 
here. ,, 

I did not contradict her ; I was too 
much disturbed. Imagination, like a cour- 
ier galloping in advance, reported to me 
everything that I should see. Here is the 
main courtyard (la cour d’honneur), 
strewn with red sand; here is the main 
entrance, surmounted by the arms of the 
Counts of Laroch-Moden ; here is the 
drawing-room with its double row of win- 
dows, here — the big reception-room, hung 
with family portraits. Even the peculiar, 
individual smell of that reception-room, a 
mixture of musk, mold and rosewood, 

25 


struck me as something too familiar. I 
became absorbed in thought. . . . 

When Count Laroch-Moden proposed 
that we should take a turn in the park, 
memories, living, though indistinct, rushed 
upon me with such force that I hardly lis- 
tened to my host, who expended all his 
store of amiability to get me to talk. 

Finally, on noticing my random answers 
to his questions, he gave me a side glance, 
expressive of surprise and pity. 

“Don’t be surprised at my absent-mind- 
edness, Count,” said I, as I caught his 
glance. “I’m experiencing a very strange 
sensation. I am, without doubt, in your 
castle for the first time, and yet it seems 
to me that I have passed whole years here.” 

“There’s nothing strange in that: all our 
old castles are so much alike.” 

“That’s true, but I did live in this very 
castle. ... Do you believe in the trans- 
migration of the soul?” 

“Well ... my wife believes in it, I 
can’t exactly say that I do. . . . However, 
anything is possible.” 

“Now, ‘you say it is possible, but I become 
more and more convinced of it. ...” 

The Count answered me in jocular, good- 
natured vein, regretting that he had not 

26 


lived here a hundred years ago, for he 
would then have received me at his castle 
with the same pleasure as to-day. 

“Perhaps you won’t laugh at me,” said I, 
making a supreme effort of memory, “if 
I tell you that we are now approaching a 
broad chestnut avenue.” 

“You’re perfectly right, there it is, on 
the left.” 

“And beyond that avenue we’ll see a 
lake.” 

“You’re too polite, calling this bit of wa- 
ter a lake. We’ll simply see a pond.” 

“Very well, I’ll give in on that point, but 
at any rate it’ll be a big pond.” 

“If that’s the case, let us call it a little 
lake.” 

I did not walk, I ran along that chest- 
nut avenue. At the end I saw in all its 
details the picture which had imprinted it- 
self on my mind a few minutes before. 
Beautiful flowers of wonderful shape bor- 
dered a somewhat large pond; a boat was 
moored to the edge. On the opposite side 
were groups of stately weeping willows. 
. . . Great Heavens! Yes, in very truth, 
I lived here at one time, long, long ago, 
rowed in a boat like this, sat under those 
very willows, picked those red flowers. 

27 


... We continued to walk in silence. 

“But, I beg you/’ said I, looking to the 
left with astonishment, “there must be a sec- 
ond pond here, and then a third. . . 

“No, my dear Prince, this time your 
memory or your imagination deceives you. 
There is no other pond here.” 

“But there was one, surely! Look at 
these red flowers; they grow round this 
little meadow just as they do round the 
first pond. There must have been a sec- 
ond pond here, but evidently it has been 
filled up.” 

“With every desire to agree with you, 
my dear Prince, I can’t do it. I’m nearly 
fifty, I was born in this castle, and I as- 
sure you that there was never another pond 
here.” 

“But, maybe there is some old inhabitant 
here ?” 

“My steward, Joseph, is much older than 
I. . . . We’ll ask him when we get back.” 

In the refined and courteous words of 
the Count I clearly saw a suspicion that 
he was talking to a maniac, whom it was 
safer not to contradict. 

When we went to dress for dinner that 
evening, I reminded my host about Jo- 
seph. The Count sent for him immediately. 


28 



“But, I beg you, there must-be a second pond 
here, and then a third. . • •” 















































































A sprightly old man of seventy came 
in. To all my questions he gave a decided 
answer that there never was a second pond 
in the park. 

“However, I have kept all the old maps, 
and if the Count will allow me to fetch 
them. ...” 

“Oh, yes, bring them along, and as quick- 
ly as you can. We must settle this question 
at once, or else our worthy guest will not 
be able to enjoy his dinner.” 

Joseph brought the maps. The Count 
glanced at them carelessly, but suddenly 
he uttered an exclamation of surprise. In 
an old map, of unknown date, were clearly 
marked three ponds; in fact, all this por- 
tion of the park bore the name L’etangs. 

“I present a wreath to the victor,” said 
the Count with a forced smile, turning pale. 

But I was far from feeling victorious. 
I was completely upset by this discovery — 
it was as if some misfortune had happened 
which I had long dreaded. 

As we were entering the dining-room, 
Count Moden asked me to say nothing 
about the incident to his wife, as she had 
weak nerves and was inclined to mysticism. 

There were many guests at dinner, but 
my host and I were so silent, that our wives 


29 


jointly scolded us for our unsociability. 

Since then my wife was very often at 
the castle of Laroch-Moden, but I could 
never make up my mind to go there. I be- 
came very friendly with the Count, and 
he often visited me; but he never insisted 
on my accepting his invitations, for he 
perfectly understood the situation. 

Time gradually effaced the impression 
made upon me by that terrible episode in 
my life, and I gave no more thought to it. 
But now, lying in my coffin, I tried to re- 
call to mind all the details and to judge 
them calmly. Now, as I knew for certain 
that I had lived in the world before I was 
Prince Dmitri Trubtchevsky, it was evi- 
dent to me that I had at one time lived in 
the castle of Laroch-Moden. But in what 
capacity? Did I dwell there permanently 
or did I happen to be there accidentally? 
Was I master, guest, groom, or workman? 
I could find no answer to these questions, 
but of one thing I was sure: I was very 
unhappy there; otherwise I could not ex- 
plain to myself the painful sense of grief, 
which seized me on entering the castle, 
and which torments me even now. 

These recollections became more and 
more distinct ; between separate images and 


30 


sounds I began to see a common link — but 
the snoring of Savelli and the psalm-singer 
disturbed me, and I could no longer con- 
centrate my thoughts. 

The brightly burning wax-candles were 
getting low, and through the blinds of the 
big windows a bright frosty day had long 
cast its light upon me. 


31 


IV 


Savelli jumped up from his seat, crossed 
himself, rubbed his eyes, and, seeing the 
psalm-singer still asleep, awoke him. He 
did not lose the opportunity of heaping 
bitter reproaches on him. Then he went off, 
washed himself, changed his clothes, took 
a good nip of brandy, and returned in a 
furious temper. 

The household awoke. In various quar- 
ters all was noise and bustle. The govern- 
ess again brought the children. This time 
Sonya was quieter; Kolya was very much 
pleased with the brocade and began to 
play with the tassels, with no sign of fear. 
Then came the midwife Sophya Franzovna; 
she made some remarks to Savelli, display- 
ing an expert knowledge of the undertak- 
ing business scarcely to be expected from 


32 


a person of her profession. After her came 
my bondsmen, coachmen, cooks, grooms, to 
take leave of me, and even people whom I 
had never seen before: old women, por- 
ters and servants from the neighboring 
houses. All these prayed very devoutly; 
the old women wept bitterly. I noticed 
that among the callers who came to pay 
their last respects, those of the lower class 
kissed me on the lips, and with a certain 
degree of pleasure, whereas people of my 
own class — even those who were nearest 
to me — turned from me with aversion. This 
would have hurt me keenly, had I been 
able to look upon it with my former earthly 
senses. Nastassya, dressed in a loose light- 
blue dressing-gown, with pink flowers, 
again entered the room and approached my 
coffin. Her dress did not please Savelli, 
and he spoke to her sharply about it. 

“But what can I do, Savelli Petro- 
vitch?” said Nastassya. “I tried on the 
dark ones, but none of them fit me.” 

“Well, if they don't fit, you'd better 
stay in bed. Another woman in your place 
would be ashamed even to approach his 
Highness' coffin.” 

“But why do you abuse her, Savelli Pe- 
trovitch?” broke in Semyon. “She's my 

33 


lawful wife, and I don’t see any sin in 
that.” 

“I know them, these lawful hussies!” 
growled Savelli, and went into his 
corner. 

Nastassya became horribly confused, and 
wanted to make some crushing reply, but 
could not find the words ; her lips trembled 
with rage, and tears stood in her eyes. 

“Thou shalt tread on the lion and the 
adder, the young lion and the dragon shalt 
Thou trample under foot . ...” chanted 
the psalm-singer. 

Nastassya crept up close to Savelli and 
whispered to him: 

“That’s you, the adder.” 

“Whom are you calling an adder? 
You. ...” 

Savelli did not finish the phrase, for 
a loud ring was heard outside, and Vass- 
yutka ran in with the news that Countess 
Maria Mikhailovna had arrived. All im- 
mediately left the drawing-room. 

Marya Mikhailovna, my wife’s aunt, 
was a very distinguished lady. She ap- 
proached me very leisurely and uttered a 
few solemn words of prayer. She was 
about to kiss me, but changed her mind 
and for several minutes shook her grey 
head, covered in black like a nun’s, over 


34 


me; whereupon, supported courteously by 
her companion, she went to my wife's 
room. In a quarter of an hour she re- 
turned with my wife, who was in a white 
dressing-gown, with her hair down, and her 
eyes so swollen with crying that she could 
hardly open them. 

“Voyons, Zoe, mon enfant ” said the 
Countess in a soothing tone, “soyez ferme. 
Remember how much I have been through ; 
bear up !” 

“Oui,ma tante, je serai ferme,” answered 
my wife and walked towards me with a 
firm step. But my appearance had, prob- 
ably, changed so much during the night, 
that she started back, screamed, and fell 
into the arms of the women near her. She 
was led away. 

No doubt, my wife was very much 
grieved by my death. But there is an ad- 
mixture of artificiality in every public ex- 
hibition of grief, which few can escape. 
Even the most sincerely grief-stricken man 
cannot forget that other people are looking 
at him. 

Towards two o'clock the guests began to 
assemble. The first to arrive was a tall, 
middle-aged general, with grey curled mus- 
tache, and a number of orders on his breast. 

35 


He approached me and was also about to 
kiss me, but changed his mind and crossed 
himself repeatedly without touching his 
forehead and breast, shaking his fingers in 
the air. Thereupon he turned to Savelli. 

“So, then, Savelli, my dear fellow, we’ve 
lost our Prince.” 

“Yes, your Excellency, I’ve served the 
Prince for forty years, and if I could ever 
have imagined. ...” 

“Don’t worry, don’t worry, the Princess 
won’t forget you.” 

And, patting Savelli on the shoulder, the 
general turned to greet a short, pasty-look- 
ing senator, who, without coming up to me, 
plumped himself down on the same chair 
on which Savelli slept during the night. 
His cough nearly choked him. 

“So, then, Ivan Efimitch,” said the gen- 
eral, “we’ve lost another of our members.” 

“There’s nothing to be done for it: no 
man knows the day nor the hour. ...” 

“Ah, it’s all very well to talk — but yet 
it’s awful to leave the club in the evening 
with no certainty that you’ll be there again 
next day. And it’s still worse that you 
can never tell when that rascal, death, will 
steal upon you. Why, here Prince Dmitri 
Alexandrovitch goes to the funeral of Vas- 


36 


sili Ivanovitch and catches cold, while you 
and I are also there, and we both escape.” 

The senator was again seized with a fit 
of coughing, after which he usually became 
more ill-humored. 

“Yes, he had a strange fate, this Prince 
Vassili Ivanovitch! All his life was full 
of dirty actions ; it serves him right. Even 
at his own funeral, when one would think 
he could do no more harm, he managed to 
bring about the death of his own nephew.” 

“Stop, that’s enough, Ivan Efimitch, 
you’ll get pinched in the next world for 
your tongue. ... At least, you can’t say 
anything bad about our dear Dmitri Alex- 
androvitch, and you must admit that he 
was an excellent man. ...” 

“Why exaggerate, general? If we say 
that he was an amiable and sociable fel- 
low, that’ll be quite enough. And, believe 
me, for a Trubtchevsky even that is saying 
a good deal, as the Princes of Trubtchevsky 
are not usually distinguished for their 
amiability. Let us take, not to go any far- 
ther, his brother Andrey. ...” 

“Well, as for him I won’t argue with 
you : Andrey is not congenial to me. I won- 
der why he gives himself such airs?” 

“He has nothing to boast about, but that’s 

37 


not my point. If such a man as Prince 
Andrey Alexandrovitch is tolerated in so- 
ciety, that only shows how easy-going we 
are. Really, we should refuse to shake 
hands with such a man. Here’s what I 
heard about him from a most reliable source 
of information. ...” 

At that moment my brother appeared, 
and both speakers hurried towards him, 
with an expression of deepest sympathy. 

Shortly afterwards my old friend Misha 
Zvyaguin came in timidly. He was a very 
good fellow and always head over ears in 
debt. In the beginning of October he came 
to me, explained the fix he was in, and 
asked me for the loan of five thousand 
roubles for a couple of months, which 
would help him out of the mess. After a 
little hesitation I wrote him a check; he 
offered me a promissory note, but I told 
him this was unnecessary. Of course, he 
did not return the money two months later, 
and he began to keep out of my way. 
During my illness he sent several times to 
inquire after my health, but never came 
himself. Now, as he stepped up to my 
coffin, I read in his eyes all sorts of feelings : 
regret, shame, fear and even, somewhere 
in the depths of his eyes, a sort of joy- 


38 


ous relief at the thought that he had one 
creditor less. However, he immediately 
felt ashamed of this thought and began to 
pray fervently. There was a struggle go- 
ing on in his heart : he ought to declare his 
debt on the spot, but, on the other hand, 
of what use, if he could not pay it? He 
would do when the time came, but now 
. . . does anybody know of it? Is it en- 
tered in any book? But no, he really must 
declare it at once. . . . 

Misha Zvyaguin came up to my brother 
with a resolute air and began to question 
him about my illness. My brother an- 
swered his questions carelessly, looking the 
other way: my death gave him an excuse 
for being inattentive and overbearing. 

“You see, Prince,” began Zvyaguin, stam- 
mering, “I was owing your late brother. . . 

My brother pricked up his ears and 
looked at him inquiringly. 

“I wanted to say, I was greatly indebted 
to the late Dmitri Alexandrovitch. Our 
life-long friendship. ...” 

My brother again turned away, and poor 
Misha Zvyaguin went back to his former 
place. His flushed face quivered, his eyes 
wandered incessantly about the room. Here, 
for the first time since my death, I was 


39 


sorry that I could not speak. I so wanted 
to say to him: “Oh, keep those five thou- 
sand, my children have enough already. ,, 

The drawing-room was soon filled. The 
ladies entered in pairs and stood along the 
wall. Hardly anybody approached me ; 
they seemed ashamed of me. The ladies 
who were more intimate with us asked my 
brother whether they might see my wife; 
my brother, with a solemn bow, pointed to 
the door of the reception-room. The ladies 
stopped at the door, reflecting for a moment, 
and then, with bowed head, dived into the 
reception-room like bathers, who, after a 
little hesitation, plunge boldly, head fore- 
most, into the cold water. 

By two o’clock all the elite of St. Pe- 
tersburg were assembled. Had I been a 
vain man, the sight of the room would 
have given me great pleasure. Among the 
visitors there were even some whose arrival 
was announced to my brother in a whisper ; 
these he went to meet at the head of the 
staircase. 

I was always agreeably affected by the 
funeral service, although there was much 
in it that I did not understand. The words 
“eternal life” always rather puzzled me; 
they seemed to me a bitter irony. But now 

40 


all these words acquired a deep meaning 
for me. I myself was living this eternal 
life, and was in the very place where “ill- 
ness, grief, or sighing were unknown.” 

On the contrary, the earthly sighs, which 
reached my hearing, seemed to me strange 
and unmeaning. When the choir began to 
sing “The Weeping for the Dead,” as if 
in answer to the songs convulsive sobs 
were heard in different parts of the room. 
My wife fainted and was carried out. 

The funeral service was finished. The 
deacon began in a deep voice: “In blessed 
death. ...” But at that moment some- 
thing strange occurred. All at once it be- 
came dark, as if night had suddenly 
descended on the earth. I could no longer 
distinguish faces, but saw only black fig- 
ures. The deacon’s voice became fainter 
and gradually faded somewhere into the dis- 
tance. At last it died out altogether, the 
lights went out, everything disappeared. I 
completely lost the sense of sight and hear- 
ing. . . . 


41 


V 

I found myself in some dark, unknown 
place. I use the word “place,” however, 
from mere force of habit : the idea of space 
no longer existed for me. Nor was there 
such a thing as time : I could not tell how 
long this condition lasted. I saw nothing, 
heard nothing, but only thought, thought 
deeply, persistently. 

The profound riddle which had troubled 
me all my life was solved. There is no 
death, there is eternal life. I was always 
convinced of this, but could never clearly 
formulate my belief. It was based on the 
fact that life must otherwise be a crying 
absurdity. Man thinks, feels, is conscious 
of his surroundings, enjoys himself, suffers 
— and finally disappears. His body is dis- 
solved and serves to form new elements — 


42 


this is clear to all of us. But that which 
was conscious of itself and all the world 
about us, where does that go? If matter 
is indestructible, why should consciousness 
disappear forever? And if it does disap- 
pear, where does it come from, and what 
aim has such an ephemeral manifestation? 
This seemed to me an absurdity, and I could 
not admit it. 

Now I saw, by my own experience, that 
consciousness does not die, that I never 
ceased, and probably never shall cease, to 
live. But at the same time new “cursed 
questions” bothered me. If I never have 
died and if I shall be reincarnated on earth, 
then of what use are these successive ex- 
istences? By what law do they act, and to 
what last resort will they lead me? Pos- 
sibly, I might be able to grasp this law and 
understand it, if I remember all or, at 
least, some of the past existences. But why 
is man deprived of that remembrance? 
Why is he condemned to live in such per- 
petual ignorance, that even the conception 
of life comes to him only in the guise of a 
riddle? And if some unknown law de- 
mands darkness and oblivion, why do lucid 
intervals occur in that darkness, as, for in- 
stance, had been the case with me, when 


43 


I came to the castle of Laroch-Moden ? 

I clung with all my might to this recol- 
lection, as the drowning man snatches at 
a straw. It seemed to me that if I could 
recall my whole life in that castle down 
to its minutest details, this would throw 
light on all the rest. No outward im- 
pression disturbed me, I tried not to think 
nor reflect, so that my memory could act 
freely. . . . 

And, lo! From the depth of my soul, 
as the mist from the river-bed, indistinct, 
pale images began to shape themselves. I 
saw figures flitting before me, heard 
strange, hardly comprehensible words. . . . 
In each remembrance there were gaps which 
I could not fill: the faces of the figures 
were shrouded in mist, the words had no 
relation to each other, all was disconnected 
and incomplete. Here is the family vault 
of the Counts Laroch-Moden. On the white 
marble slab I clearly read the black let- 
ters : “Ci — git tres haute et recommandable 
dame. . . . ” Then follows the name, but 
I cannot decipher it. Next to it is the 
sarcophagus with the marble urn, on which 
I read : “Ci — git le coeur du marquis. . . 
Suddenly a shrill, impatient voice resounds 
in my ears, calling somebody: “Zo . . . 


44 



“From the depth of my soul, as the mist from the 
river-bed, indistinct, pale images began to shape 
themselves.” 




Zo . . I strain my memory, and to 
my great joy I hear the name: “Zorobabel! 
Zorobabel !” This name, so familiar to me, 
suddenly brings up before me a whole series 
of pictures. I am in the courtyard of the 
castle, in a great crowd of people. “A la 
chambre du roi! A la chambre du roi!” 
cries the same sharp, impatient voice in a 
commanding tone. In every old French 
castle there is a King’s Room, the room 
which the King would occupy should he 
ever visit the castle. And now I see that 
room of the castle of Laroch-Moden in all 
its details. The ceiling is painted with 
rose-colored cupids, with garlands in their 
hands, the walls are covered with gobelin 
tapestry, depicting hunting scenes. I dis- 
tinctly see the stag with his big antlers, 
standing over a brook in a despairing atti- 
tude, as the three hunters bring him to 
bay. In the far end of the room — an al- 
cove, surmounted by a golden crown ; white 
lilies are embroidered on the blue quilted 
canopy. On the opposite side is the life- 
size portrait of the King. I see his breast 
in coat of mail, his long, thin legs encased 
in leggings, but I cannot distinguish his 
face. If I were able to do so, I should 
have, perhaps, known at what time I lived 

45 


in that castle. But this was just what I 
could not see: some tightly closed valve 
in my memory would not open. “Zoro- 
babel, Zorobabel!” cries the commanding 
voice. I make a tense effort, and suddenly 
an entirely new valve opens in my capri- 
cious memory. The castle of Laroch-Mo- 
den disappears, and a new, unexpected pic- 
ture unfolds before me. 


46 


VI 


I saw a big Russian village. Wooden 
huts, thatched with straw, were scattered 
on both sides of a broad roadway, overhung 
by a hill. It was a raw autumn day, and 
evening seemed to be drawing on. A driz- 
zling, chilly rain was falling from the lead- 
en clouds; the wind roared and whistled 
along the roadway, lifting the straw from 
the torn roofs and whirling it in the air. 
Below ran a little brook with dark foaming 
waters. I crossed to the other side of the 
brook, the rough-hewn bridge without any 
handrail quivering under my feet. Two 
roads led from the bridge: to the left the 
village stretched away to the hill, and to 
the right, as if bending over the ravine, 
stood an old wooden church with a green 
dome. 


47 


I turned to the right. Behind the church 
were seen heaps of crosses blackened by 
time, and between the tombs the wet, al- 
most bare, branches of young birch trees 
swayed in the wind; yellow-brown leaves 
covered the earth like a carpet. Beyond 
was a black, entirely bare, stretch of land. 
And yet, in spite of that desolate picture, 
something sweet and familiar from a long- 
past life stirred within me. But why all 
this darkness and solitude around me ? Why 
is not a single living face visible? Why 
do all the huts stand wide open? When 
did I live in this village? Was it during 
the Tartar invasion, or later? And had 
some stranger destroyed this nest, or had 
native robbers driven the inhabitants into 
the forests and the steppes? 

I returned to the bridge and, turning 
to the left, went up the hill. And there I 
found the same solitude, the same marks 
of desolation. At last, near an old broken- 
down well, I saw a living creature. It was 
a starved looking dog, very old and evi- 
dently dying from hunger. His skin was 
mangy, and his bones were sticking out 
through his sides. On seeing me, he made 
an intense effort to get up, but could not 
move, and, falling into the mud, he began 
to yelp pitifully. 


48 



“I crossed to the other side of the brook, the rough- 
hewn bridge without any handrail quivering under my 
feet.” 




I tried with all my might to imagine this 
village, so dear to my heart, in some other 
surroundings; to picture it in the flush of 
dawn, or with the sun setting in splendor 
behind the hill, the corn waving in the 
fields, or the brook frozen, and all the hill 
sparkling like silver in the frosty moon- 
night. But, however much I tried to recall 
all this, I could not remember anything like 
it. It seemed that all the year round this 
drizzling rain was falling from the leaden 
sky, the wind blowing into the open huts 
and finding vent through the unused chim- 
neys. 

But, lo! Amid the death-like silence I 
hear the ringing of bells. The sound is so 
cracked and mournful that it does not seem 
like a bell, but resembles rather a voice 
coming out from some long-suffering metal- 
lic breast. I go in the direction whence the 
sound is coming, and enter the church. It 
is full of people praying, of simple, rustic 
folk. The service is somewhat unusual, as 
is also the mood of the worshipers. Groans 
are heard at intervals in different parts of 
the church; tears flow down the furrowed, 
sunburnt cheeks. I make my way through 
the crowd, along the worn, rough-hewn 
floor, to the right, where candles are burn- 

49 


ing in front of the Miraculous Icon of the 
Holy Virgin. The Icon is black, without a 
chasuble; a small golden wreath surmounts 
the head of the Mother of God ; her look is 
half severe, half pitying. In front of the 
Icon are hung hands, feet, and eyes, made 
of silver and ivory — votive offerings of the 
sick. From the pulpit comes floating the 
feeble, indistinct voice of the priest, read- 
ing a prayer which was new to me: 

“Thou punishest us for our sins, but Thy 
wrath is more than we can bear. 

“O Lord, stay Thy avenging hand and 
have mercy on us! 

“A cruel enemy oppresses us, but we are 
without leaders, homes, or bread. 

“We suffer for our sins, but why should 
our innocent children suffer ? 

“We are patient, O Lord, we submit to 
Thy will, but yet we are human, and have 
not enough strength to endure it. 

“We cannot fight, we await no help from 
outside, and now we come to Thee for the 
last time and pray: save us, O Lord! 

“O God, do not let us rebel against Thee ! 
Do not bring us to despair! Thou gavest 
us life; do not take it from us before the 
time P 

There was a stir among the worshipers. 


50 


The crowd made way, and the priest has- 
tened to the Miraculous Icon. He was a 
little old man, with grey tangled beard. His 
old faded chasuble did not fit him and 
trailed on the floor. 

“O Heavenly Mother !” he cried in a 
loud agitated voice. “Thou art nearer to 
human suffering, for Thou knowest what 
it means. 

“Thou sawest Thy beloved and innocent 
Son nailed to the Cross. Thou sawest His 
tormentors, mocking Him in His last mortal 
hour. 

“What grief could be compared to that? 

“Tell Him, to Thy Son, Thy Son. . . 

The priest could not continue: his voice 
trembled, and he fell to the ground weep- 
ing. The whole assemblage of worshipers 
fell on their knees. Groans from a thou- 
sand throats filled every part of the church, 
floating upwards like a column of incense 
rising into the air. My heart overflowed 
with pity and brotherly feeling for the sor- 
rows of the people. I threw myself on my 
knees, and everything became a blank. . . . 

When I came to myself again, the church 
was empty. All the lights in the candle- 
sticks were out ; only the little lamp before 
the dark face of the Holy Virgin was burn- 

51 


ing. In the dim light the expression of her 
face had changed. There was no pity in it. 
Her eyes looked down severely and with- 
out sympathy. 

I went out of the church with the vague 
hope of meeting somebody. Alas ! Around 
me the same silence, the same desolation. 
The same dull, leaden sky, the same driz- 
zling rain pattering on the yellow-brown 
leaves, and the same wind — that terrible, 
unbearable wind, lashing the leafless 
branches of the birch trees, and rending my 
soul with its monotonous moan. . . . 


52 


The boundaries of my memory spread 
wider and wider. Visions flitted before me 
of things long forgotten and, possibly, 
never seen by me: of countries, wild for- 
ests, gigantic battles, in which wild animals 
engaged with men. But all was indistinct, 
and nothing could shape itself into definite 
form. In one of these pictures a little girl 
in a blue dress flashed past me. I had long 
known her; at the time of my last exist- 
ence she appeared to me now and then in 
my sleep, which always seemed to me a bad 
omen. She was about ten years of age, 
thin, pale and unattractive looking; but her 
eyes were wonderful: black, deep-set, with 
a serious expression, quite unlike a child’s. 
At times such suffering and terror were 
seen in those eyes that they caused me to 

S3 


wake up with beating heart and drops of 
cold sweat on my forehead. After that I 
could not go to sleep again, and for several 
days was in a highly nervous state of mind. 
Now I was convinced that this girl really 
did exist and that I had known her at some 
former time. But who was she? Was she 
my daughter, or sister, or an entire stranger 
to me? And why was such superhuman 
suffering expressed in her frightened eyes? 
What tyrant tortured this child? And who 
knows but that it was I who tormented 
her, and that she appeared to me in my 
sleep as a punishment and a reproach? 

It was strange that among all my recol- 
lections none of them were joyous or cheer- 
ful; that my inner sight could read only 
pages of sorrow and misfortune. Certainly 
there must have been cheerful days in my 
existence, but evidently they were few and 
far between, for I could not remember 
them; it was as if they had been drowned 
in the sea of suffering. And this being so, 
of what use is life at all ? It is hard to be- 
lieve that it is given to us for suffering only. 
Has life any other, any definite aim? Yes, 
surely; but will it ever be revealed to me? 

Being unable to solve all these questions 
I ought to feel blissful in my present condi- 

54 



“She was unattractive looking, but her eyes were 
wonderful.” 





tion of absolute rest. But out of all that 
chaos of indistinct recollections and in- 
coherent thoughts a strange feeling began 
to steal over me: I felt drawn again into 
that vale of grief and sorrow from which 
I had just emerged. I tried to stifle this 
feeling, but it grew, waxed strong, was deaf 
to all objections, and finally became a pas- 
sionate, unrestrained thirst for life. 


55 


VIII 


Oh, just to live! I do not ask for the 
continuance of my former existence; it is 
all the same to me who I may be : prince or 
peasant, rich or poor. People say money 
does not bring happiness, and yet they call 
happiness everything in life which can be 
bought for money. But, in truth, real hap- 
piness exists only within us, and not in out- 
ward possessions. Where does that happi- 
ness begin and where does it end? All is 
relative and depends on the point of view. 
The beggar who stretches out his hand for 
a penny and receives a rouble from, an un- 
known benefactor experiences more pleas- 
ure, perhaps, than a banker who unexpect- 
edly wins two hundred thousand. I had 
always thought this, but could not be con- 
vinced owing to prejudices which I acquired 

56 


during childhood and which I accepted as 
absolute truths. Now those illusions were 
dispelled, and I saw everything much more 
clearly. For instance, I was passionately 
fond of art, and thought that the sense of 
beauty was only attainable by people of 
culture, by the rich ; and without that sense 
all life seemed to be aimless. But what, 
then, is art? The conception of art is as 
elastic as that of good and evil. Every 
age, every country, judges good and evil 
differently ; what is considered virtue in one 
country is looked upon in another country 
as a crime. The question of art, apart from 
the difference of time and place, is compli- 
cated by the infinite variety of individual 
tastes. In France, which considers itself 
the most cultured country in the world, 
Shakespeare up to the present century was 
neither understood nor recognized; and it 
is easy to cite many such examples. It 
seems to me that there is no poor creature, 
or even savage, who is not occasionally 
stirred by the sense of beauty, although his 
artistic conception may be different. The 
peasants sitting on the grass on a warm 
spring evening around an amateur guitar 
player enjoy it, possibly, not a whit less than 
the conservatoire professors listening in a 

57 


stuffy room to one of Bach’s fugues. 

Oh, just to live! Just to see a human 
face, to hear the sound of a human voice, 
to mingle once more with my fellow men 
. . . with all kinds of men : good and bad. 
And, then, are there any absolutely bad 
people in the world? If we remember in 
what terrible conditions of helplessness and 
ignorance man is condemned to live and 
struggle, it is rather surprising that there 
are absolutely good people in the world. 
Man is ignorant of what is most important 
for him to know. He does not know why 
he was born, why he is living, why he 
should die. He forgets all his former ex- 
istences and cannot even make a guess about 
his future ones. He does not see the rea- 
son for those successive existences, and he 
completes the ritual of life, incomprehensi- 
ble to him, in the midst of darkness and 
suffering. And how he struggles to escape 
from this darkness! How desperately he 
tries to understand, , how laboriously he 
works in order to build up and improve his 
hearth and home, how strenuously he exer- 
cises his poor limited reason! All his ef- 
forts are in vain, all his inventions, even 
the most remarkable, are powerless to solve 
any of those vital questions. In all his 

58 


work he finds a limit which he cannot over- 
step. He knows, for instance, that besides 
the earth there exist other worlds, other 
planets ; by the aid of mathematics he knows 
how these planets move, when they ap- 
proach the earth, and when they move 
away ; but what goes on in those planets and 
whether they have beings like ourselves — 
he can only make a guess, but will never 
know definitely. And yet, he hopes and 
searches. 

Oh, how I wish I could come back to 
these unfortunate, pitiful, patient little 
creatures! To live in common with them, 
to take part in their every-day petty inter- 
ests, to which they attach such enormous 
importance! Some of them I would love, 
with some I would quarrel, others I would 
hate — but I crave for this love, this hate, 
this strife! 

Oh, just to live! I want to see the sun 
as it sets behind the hill, the blue sky stud- 
ded with bright stars, the white ripples 
dancing on the glassy surface of the sea, 
and huge breakers dashing against one an- 
other to the accompaniment of the sudden 
storm. I want to fling myself into a canoe 
to brave that tempest. I want to gallop 
across the snow-covered steppe in the reck- 

59 


less troika, to challenge the infuriated bear, 
dagger in hand, to live through all the thrills 
and all the trifles of life 1 I want to see how 
the lightning rends the sky, to watch the 
green beetle as it creeps from one branch 
to another; I want to smell the new-mown 
hay, to hear the song of the nightingale in 
the lilac bushes, the croaking of the frogs 
in the pond, the sound of the village church 
bells, and the rattling of the carts on the 
pavement. I want to hear the solemn 
chords of the heroic symphony and the ex- 
ultant songs of the gypsies! 

Oh, only just to live! Only just to be 
able to take the breath of life once more 
and to utter a human word. Just to cry 
out! . . . 


60 


And suddenly I cried out with all my 
might. A great joy seized me as I uttered 
that cry, but the sound of my voice startled 
me. It was not my usual voice; it was a 
weak, feeble cry. I opened my eyes: the 
dazzling light of a bright frosty morning 
nearly blinded me. I found myself in 
Nastassya’s room. Sophya Franzovna was 
holding me in her arms. Nastassya was ly- 
ing in bed, supported on all sides by pillows, 
and breathing heavily. 

“Listen, Vassyutka,” said Sophya Fran- 
zovna, “slip through into the drawing-room 
and call Semyon for a moment.” 

“But how can I get there, ma’am?” re- 
plied Vassyutka. “They’re just going to 
carry the Prince out, and there’s such a big 
crowd.” 


‘‘Well, you must get through somehow! 
Just call him for a moment ; after all, he is 
the father.” 

Vassyutka disappeared, and after a mo- 
ment returned with Semyon. He was in a 
black dress-coat with white crepe-band ana 
was holding a large towel in his hands. 

“Well, what’s new?” he asked, running in. 

“All’s well, I congratulate you,” said 
Sophya Franzovna in a solemn tone of 
voice. 

“Thank Heaven,” said Semyon, and ran 
back again, without even looking at me. 

“Is it a boy or a girl?” he asked from the 
corridor. 

“A boy, a boy!” 

“Thank Heaven!” replied Semyon, and 
disappeared. 

Yudishna was finishing her toilet at a 
dressing-table, on which there stood an old 
crooked mirror in a brass frame. She tied 
up her head with a black woollen shawl and 
was about to go and witness the removal 
of the coffin, but suddenly she turned round 
and cast a look of disgust at Nastassya. 

“You’ve hit the right time to bring a child 
into the world, just when they’re carrying 

out the Prince ! Oh, be d d !” She spat 

with withering scorn, and, piously crossing 


62 


herself, swept majestically into the hall. 
Nastassya made no reply, but simply smiled 
after her with a blissful kind of expression. 

I was bathed in a tub, put into swad- 
dling clothes, and laid in my cot. I fell 
asleep at once, like a stranger tired out after 
a long, fatiguing journey. During that deep 
sleep I forgot everything that had happened 
to me up to that moment. 

After several hours I awoke — a helpless, 
feeble, unreasoning little creature, destined 
to constant suffering. 

I was entering a new life. 


63 






























PQ $ 

AlZ^ 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 



□□□2E355454 


m 



